Better Than the Alternative
by FrozenPrincess
Summary: Directly after the pool scene. Angst and then not-so-angsty.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock knows what a gunshot wound looks like.

He's seen blood pulsing out of injuries before.

He is aware of how the body cools after death, becoming cold and small.

Sherlock likes bodies, they can tell him secrets that no one else can see.

There's a body in front of Sherlock, and for once he isn't happy.

There's a body.

There's a body; and it's taking up the space where John used to be.

Smart-Sherlock separates from Real-Sherlock. Smart-Sherlock takes over. He can see that there is a gunshot wound, and blood, and that the body is cooling. He knows that when the bomb went off, the body was focused on getting him into the water- towards safety. He deduces that the body was more focused on Sherlock's well-being than it was on it's own, and that is probably the reason it is now lying there, still as can be. He knows which direction the shot comes from, and that he could probably find the shooter, just from examining the room the deadly shot came from. He could go up to the room, but he doesn't.

And there Smart-Sherlock stops. Because there's only so much to deduce here, only so much to see. When you are part of the crime scene, you already know what has happened. The facts are dried up, can't tell him anymore. Real-Sherlock takes over.

This one is the one with the feelings, the one that's barely seen. It's rare that another person should ever see this side of Sherlock. Mycroft saw it, once, when Sherlock was too little to realize how much the world could- would- hurt him. And John. John saw it more than once. John is- was special.

Because John is a was now. That body, the body- John. It hurts. Sherlock shouldn't hurt, usually he's protected well enough that nothing can hurt him. But (_I__'__ll __burn __the __heart __out __of __you_) John was there, under his protective shell, and now he's gone, torn away before Sherlock had the chance to harden against vulnerability. The torn-away-John spot has left a raw, oozing something. Maybe it's his heart.

If today were a normal day, and if that body were anyone else, Sherlock would pick himself up out of the puddle he's sitting in. He'd stop dripping and stop looking like he's a child who has lost it's mother in a big scary world. He'd go to the building where the shot came from, he'd find the room. He'd figure out who did this, and he would take his bloody revenge. But today isn't a normal day, and this isn't anyone else. It's John. So Sherlock doesn't move.

He sits and closes his eyes. Trying not to think the things his brain (_it __never __shuts __up_) is screaming. _I__'__ll __burn __the __heart __out __of __you.__The __body __is __John. __I __killed __John. __He __is- __was- __always __protecting __me. __He __got __himself __killed __to __save __me. __I __should __have __died. __I __wish __I __had __died. __I__'__d __go __back __and __die. __John, __John, __John. __John __is __dead- __gone, __not __coming __back, __snuffed __out. __Ahhhh- __it __hurts. __John- __I __need, __I __want, __come __back- __JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn. __Dead. __Fuckfuckfuck. __My __fault. __Pain. __Excruciating._

_I won't survive this. _

There's a body. It is John. It is Sherlock's fault. The cops show up, but Sherlock could care less. Voices murmer to him, yell at him, slap him. He doesn't respond, doesn't open his eyes. Yes, it's probably shock. He doesn't care- he'll stay here, this way forever. Until he dies (_in __approximately __three __days, __of __dehydration_). He'll sit here and hate himself until the end of time. Or death. Whichever comes sooner.

Seconds tick by and no one touches him. The voices leave to deliberate. Fine.

_John John John John John._

_Dead._

*a/n* If you want angst, don't read chapter two. If you want a happy(er) ending, read chapter two. Thanks for reading, comments always appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sees the body in his head. He doesn't want to, but his brain keeps conjuring pictures. Sherlock can't stop it, and at this point opening his eyes would be worse. Because it's real, and if he were to open his eyes, he would see what his brain was showing him. Tangible proof that John was gone. Engraved in cooled flesh and too much blood and crime scene tape- the words, the accusations. _He__'__s __gone. __You __killed __him. __You __killed __your __only __friend._

"I'll burn the heart out of you." He can hear it, the exact words and it haunts him. It's almost like Moriarty's still there, the proof of his cruel work making him a ghostly being of smug reminders.

Sherlock sways. Can you sway while sitting down? His legs are straining, might collapse, but that's ridiculous. How can legs collapse if they have no weight on them?

Eyes open. Shock. _I__'__m __delusional. __John.__Oh __god, __if __I__'__m __going __crazy, __I __want __to __stay __here. _Because John is there, looking at him. Alive. He's going crazy, he's reliving the past, he's having a nightmare. Sherlock doesn't care. Pain might be coming, a harsh wake-up into reality. It doesn't matter because right now, for just this second John is alive.

Sherlock's hand is raised, pointing the gun at the bomb, but his eyes are trained on John. _I __know __what __comes __next. _And then the inevitable, dooming thought: _Maybe __I __can __save __him. _Once it's there, it can never leave. Sherlock has to try, even if he is dead certain it will not work. He won't watch John die again, he'd rather die himself.

_**Crack. **__Gunshot. __Leap __towards __water, __but __pull __John __with __you this time. __Twist, __send __him __in __first __before __falling __in yourself. _It's over in a flash.

_Pain. _Like nothing Sherlock has ever felt before- it's ripping his side and sending fire through his nerves. Shapes, colors, dots dance before his eyes. This has to be reality. No dream could ever feel like this. Sherlock couldn't imagine pain like this. _It__'__s __real, __oh __god, __it__'__s __real._

Hands, grasping, pulling him from the water. _More __pain, __ouch __that __hurts! _He might have whimpered. Eyes. Open eyes, _nownownownownow. __Must __find __John. __Did __I __save __him?_

Blue eyes open to meet concerned brown ones.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what have you done? You went and got yourself shot! You idiot!" Anger flares in those eyes, but it's masked by concern. "Just a scratch, but still!"

_Relief._ It flares, engulfing his entire body. _John. __Not __dead. __I __saved __John._He could care less about himself. He remembers there was a question in there, a question about Why.

"Better than the alternative", he manages to gasp out, before being consumed by the blackness.


End file.
